


Mono no Aware

by Daegaer



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: AU, Assassins & Hitmen, Gen, Heian Period, Historical, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 23:32:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4157109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a moonlit night, Mamoru is most infelicitously disturbed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mono no Aware

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2015 Weiss vs Saiyuki Battle Challenge 1, for my own prompt of Nagi/Mamoru in Heian era Japan. Mamoru writes a (truly execrable) tanka (syllable structure 5-7-5-7-7), a common style of poem in the Heian era. The title is a later phrase describing a common thought of the era meaning something like "Pathos of Things" /"Existence is Fleeting."

Takatori no Mamoru, rumoured to be youngest son of a man once who had ambitions to rise to the position of Minister of the Right before his unfortunate end in what all agreed was a most infelicitous fire that raged through the capital, was most surprised when his view of the moon was obscured by a youth wearing what could - on Mamoru’s closer inspection, although he had never had desires to see such fabric close to his person - only be described as _sackcloth_.

“Out of my way, you fool!” the youth said, leaping from the garden onto the veranda in a display of most ungentlemanly acrobatic skill. Not only did he have in his hand a dagger of alarming length and sharpness, Mamoru saw, but his feet were dirty and encased in straw sandals that had all manner of unpleasantnesses encrusted upon them; it was clear that he did not intend to remove them before entering the house at some speed. Not only that, but the youth appeared to be followed by a gang of miscreants carrying clubs and short spears. Mamoru finished his dish of sake, reflecting that life is indeed fleeting and it seemed that before the night’s end he would gaze not upon the moon but upon the face of the Merciful Buddha. He did the only thing he could under such sad circumstances, and reached for his inkstone and brushes.

_The moon’s white light gleams_  
_Shining bright from blade and blood_  
_My sake dish fills_  
_With liquor fit for demons_  
_Darker than my blackest ink._

“You,” the youth said, kicking the last of the miscreants’ corpses aside in a vulgar manner, “are no help. . . . are you writing _poetry?_ ”

“One moment, my dear young man,” Mamoru said, counting the syllables in the last line. “Now, how may I help you?” He bestowed a nervous smile upon the youth, hoping that an act of charity would both please Heaven and act to forestall the murderous, gore-splattered commoner from sending him there.

“Takatori no Mamoru?” the youth said. “Son of Takatori no Reiji?”

Mamoru wondered to what degree it was felicitous to bow to such a person, for even if self-preservation might dictate a measure of caution when facing an insane peasant with a dagger, there were still the standards of a gentleman to uphold. Then he considered the matter of the dagger and the evidence of the corpses, and executed a remarkably polite bow to the youth.

“The same.”

The youth hunkered down before him and indicated the unfortunately untidy mortal remains of the gang.

“Assassins,” he said. “After you.”

“If you will forgive my remarking on it,” Mamoru said, “they seemed to be in pursuit of you.”

The youth shook his head, causing, in the manner of those of the lower classes in all places, leaves and cobwebs to drift free from his unkempt hair and drift to the floor. Mamoru attempted to edge away unobtrusively, lest they touch his robes.

“I just got here in time to stop them. Where are your guards, Takatori no Mamoru? They’ve been bought off.”

Mamoru hid a sigh. Among the things that are vexing - the loss of a good writing brush; spilling hot sake on a cold evening; a lover pointing out mistakes in one’s Chinese characters when one has sent a heartfelt poem and hoped the _intent_ was what would be noted - he felt the suborning of bodyguards was surely at least fifth, or possibly even fourth highest in his estimation. He reached for his brush, to properly express how he felt. His hand hit what felt like an invisible wall.

“Before you write another poem,” the youth said, “I would like you to consider that I have slain all these assassins by myself, in a very short time. This could perhaps stand in the place of a reference.”

“You wish to become my bodyguard?” Mamoru said in surprise. “My dear young nameless man -”

“Nagi.”

“ . . . yes, well, my dear young Nagi, you are the sort of person who appears from nowhere, who uses infelicitous forms of speech, and who has extremely dirty feet. This argues against your employment in a gentleman’s household.”

“Dirt does wash off, you know,” Nagi said, using verbs that were so very infelicitous that Mamoru found it hard to sit still.

“It does?” Mamoru said in astonishment. “Really? Oh. I thought that persons of your station just naturally . . .” He stopped talking as it became apparent from Nagi’s expression that he was perhaps not expressing entirely gentlemanly sentiments. “Ah. In that case perhaps you might present yourself tomorrow, after you have washed your feet.”

Nagi bowed, at least a little.

Mamoru wondered if he should dismiss him, and settled for smiling distantly and contemplating the moon. He briefly thought about pouring another dish of sake, then remembered what his dish currently contained, and decided that the melancholy of lunar contemplation whilst sober would be an _excellent_ topic for a poem.


End file.
